


The Lone Wolf Dies

by Ziggy527



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Unbeta'd, and so he shall, i want him to suffer, jon is all fucked up, sad as hell, season 8 wrap up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy527/pseuds/Ziggy527
Summary: Jon reflecting on what he did. It's depressing as hell.





	The Lone Wolf Dies

**Author's Note:**

> This took hold of me and had to come out. I'm making progress on the next chapter of "A Wolf Apart" and should be a matter of days before that's updated. In the meantime, here's me beating the shit out of Jon because no one gets off scott free for killing Daenerys Fucking Targaryen.

He sat in the cell for weeks on end, nothing but his memories to pass the time. No god could have designed a crueler torture. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, staring back at him. Her face, the loveliest thing he had ever seen, as the shock and pain and betrayal of what he had done to her, flashed across it. 

Sleep eluded him. 

They shoved a bowl with gruel in it every morning but he ate little of it. He was slowly wasting away and welcomed it. It wasn’t long before he stopped caring for himself entirely, his hair and beard had grown out of control and he sat in his own filth. Time lost all meaning as day followed day and night followed night.

It was what he deserved. 

_Together,_ she whispered in his dream as the blood spilled from her mouth. 

Eventually they dragged him out, bound at the hands and ankles. He saw Grey Worm as two Unsullied carried him out of the dungeons, his face a mask of hatred and rage. Jon couldn’t blame the man for his feelings. He felt the same about himself. 

When they reached a courtyard, he was dumped unceremoniously into the back of a cart. A massive blanket was draped over him as the two horses pulling the cart jerked with a start. Jon felt nothing at the prospect of not knowing what he was being led to.If it was a violent and bloody death, he welcomed it. Maybe he could see her again, apologize to her, hold her…

He didn’t think he’d survive killing her. Daenerys’ armies surrounded him, Dothraki and Unsullied loyal to her, thousands of them deadly protectors. But the biggest threat was Drogon. The great black beast was Dany’s shadow, always standing sentinel near her. After the life left her eyes, the dragon’s roar was deafening. Jon stood to face him and silently pleaded with Drogon to kill him. But dragons do not answer to men and instead the Iron Throne faced his flame and melted. 

_It should have been me. Why wasn’t it me?_

After a while, the cart came to a stop and the blanket was pulled back. Bright light hit his eyes and blinded him. It took a few minutes for the pain to subside and his eyes to adjust to the sun. Weeks, if not months in a dark dungeon with only a small window for light would have that effect. Blinkingly, he lifted his hand up to block out the sun. It had no effect.

A pair of hands lifted him from the cart and hauled him to his feet. He was wobbly and weak, but he took a few blind steps before the hands held him in place, signalling him to stop. 

“Jon,” a voice came from near him. It was Arya and she was close by. His heart gave a lurch at the sound. She was here in King’s Landing, like she was for her father and about to witness another execution.

But when his eyes finally settled and his sight returned, he saw where he was. The Dragonpit. All around him were various lords and ladies of Westeros. Some he knew by face and name, others were strangers to him. Was this a trial? Were they all going to sit in judgement of him?

His siblings, cousins truly, but always siblings, were there. Arya looked furious, ready to strike at any moment, her face hard at the sight of him. Bran was placid and unemotional, as always. Next to him sat Sansa, and Jon felt a surge of anger at seeing her. It was her betrayal of his true identity that had fanned the flames of Dany’s madness. Sansa looked at him with pity in her eyes. 

“He doesn’t look like a bloody Targaryen,” said a man to his left. He was older and had a cane in his hand, leaning on it for support. Jon could make out a fish on his chest. House Tully, no doubt. Which would make this man…

“Uncle Edmure,” Sansa said, cutting him off, “please sit.”

“Stark, Targaryen, bloody bastard, all I know is he’s a kinslayer, a Queenslayer. That means death. The Iron Islands are loyal to Queen Daenerys. The Unsullied want his head? Let them have it.”

Yara Greyjoy held nothing but contempt for Jon. Her eyes were hard and pitiless. 

Arya stood up and pointed a finger at the Greyjoy, “Talk about killing my brother again and I’ll slit your throat.”

Yara made to stand to the challenge, hand on the pommel of her sword.

“Please,” came the familiar voice of Tyrion Lannister from behind him, “we discussed this. We agreed to listen to Jon Snow, or Aegon Targaryen, make his case to be king.”

Confusion gripped Jon. He looked at the people he knew, searching their face for the true meaning of this. Sansa gave him a small nod and a tight smile. Sadness was what he saw in Arya’s eyes. His brother Bran gave nothing away. 

“Mayhaps a King shouldn’t have shit in his pants,” a young man with a falcon stitched to his chest sneered. 

Jon just laughed and finally spoke up. “Aye, mayhaps you’re right. I am many things, oathbreaker, kinslayer, Queenslayer and bastard but one thing I am not is a king. No matter what the circumstances of my birth were.”

“You don’t want the crown?” Bronze Yohn Royce asked, his voice quiet and his eyes locked on Jon.

“No. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want less.” That crown had taken her from him. It had destroyed her long before his knife did.

“Jon,” Sansa spoke up and leaned forward in her chair. “Think about what you’re saying. There’s plenty of us here who will back you as King of the Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Throne is melted but the crown is yours. It’s yours.” Her face was open and smiling. She looked victorious.

This was who Sansa was now. The scheming and plotting of Littlefinger. 

“I don’t want it, Sansa. I never did. If only you had listened when I told you,”

She reacted as if slapped and fell back against her chair. 

These fools wanted him as their king. Jon had to laugh. He felt delirious and light-headed. His legs, weak from no activity, started to give out on him. With a thud, he landed in the dirt on his ass. But the laughter didn’t subside. Soon it was joined by tears and Jon had lost all control of his emotions. Eventually, he gave in and laid down on the dirt floor, crying like a babe.

“Another mad Targaryen. Shame.” 

“My brother’s not mad! He’s in pain, you Dornish ponce!”

Again he heard the shuffling of chairs and loud footsteps and indecipherable yells. Jon composed himself long enough to get to his knees. “So was she,” he said, to no one in particular. “And I killed her. I killed her for all of you, squabbling like children over a sweet. I saved you all the Dragon’s wrath. Looking at you lot now, I’m not sure why.”

They all stilled and stared at him in shock. For how long, he couldn’t quite say. 

“If he won’t take the crown then take his head,” Edmure said, looking past Jon and towards Tyrion. 

The voices around him started to meld into one, until he could scarce tell one from the other.

“No you won’t, Uncle. Sansa and I will raze the Riverlands if you do!” Arya was on her feet and prowling like a caged animal. She would always seek to protect him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Pride and shame mixed inside of him at the thought of his little sister protecting him.

“He is a threat to whomever will take the crown! He has the best claim in the land. He says he doesn’t want the crown, but what of his children? Or their children? He’s far too dangerous to keep alive!”

“There has to be another way!” Sam yelled from the corner.Was it Sam? He had gone unnoticed by Jon until then. Why was he in this place, though? Was he a Lord? A maester? Was he a man on the Night’s Watch?

The Night’s Watch….

“I’ll take the Black. Again. Exile myself like Aemon Targaryen did all those years ago.”

The cacophony of sounds stopped immediately. They all turned back towards him.

"There is no Night’s Watch, Jon.” Sansa stated, plainly. A murmur of agreement followed her statement.

“Then I will start it again. I don’t want the crown, I don’t want a wife, I don’t want children. I’m not smart enough to be a maester, let me do this. Let me pay for my crime.”

Slowly, he saw they all reached the same conclusion as him. This was the best solution.

He was back in the cart and then his cell before he realized what had truly happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She is always there, a spectre on his mind and on his soul. Just on the periphery, always beyond reach. Her voice and her eyes and her lips, all of her. The fire she held inside, which once burned brightly for him. Fire yielded to blood, which ran out of her and onto his hands. 

_Traitor,_ she whispers, her face hidden behind a curtain of her silver hair. _You pushed me away, but I never stopped loving you._

“Neither did I,” he yells as he awakes with a start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days or weeks later, time spent stuck in that same dank cell, Tyrion came to him. He looked clean and neat, not the haggard looking man of the Dragonpit. On his chest was a Hand of the King pin. He had landed on his feet, which didn’t surprise Jon. When he told him that Bran was king, that was a surprise, though. But Jon was far too numb to even care about that.

“It was an elegant solution. Grey Worm begrudgingly accepts the lifetime punishment. Your sisters aren’t happy and want to see you freed. No one is truly happy. Which probably means it’s a good compromise.”

Jon cared nothing for what Tyrion was saying. There was only one thing on his mind.

“Was it right? What I did?” Nothing about that choice had left him since he made it. The sounds of her gasps, the smell of her blood, the sight of her dying, the feel of her body slacking under his hands, none of them had abated. 

Tyrion regarded him for a moment. “What we did,” he insisted. 

“It doesn’t feel right,” Jon admitted, his guilt seeping out of him.

“Ask me again in ten years.”

It wasn’t the answer Jon was looking for. 

“Does it ever go away? Will I ever not see her face when I close my eyes?” He was desperate for an answer, for absolution, for an end. 

Tyrion walked over towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No. It eases with time. But you’ll never be past it. She and what you did to her will always be a part of you”

Jon hung his head in shame and exhaustion. 

“This belongs to you, I think,” Tyrion said, forcing Jon to look up at him. In his hands was the silver three headed dragon head that held Daenerys’ chain. He pressed it into Jon’s hand. “Our queen didn’t leave much, but I think those that loved her should carry a part of her with them. Always.”

Jon ran the pad of his thumb across the head. A swell of emotions took over him and he started sobbing. Tyrion patted him on the back and made for the door, leaving him alone with his ghosts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Grandma, come quick!” 

It was Robb who galloped over on his white steed. Arya had trouble in her old age discerning which of her grandsons was yelling at her solely on their voices. That Robb was on a white steed and Jon on a brown one had made this much easier. She had allowed both of them to ride ahead, enjoying the cool spring air. But now they were both riding back and Arya knew nothing good came of that. Eleven year old boys were always a danger. Most especially to themselves.

“What is it, sweetling?” she asked, spurring her horse to meet them

“Jon and I, we found something!”

The pair of them led her for a short while before coming to a waterfall. It was vaguely familiar to Arya. Once they were all off their horses, Robb and Jon led her towards the waterfall and then behind it, to a small cave. Robb struck a flint and lit a torch and they walked into the darkness. 

When she saw what they had found, Arya gasped. There was the body of a man, in leather armor and wearing a black cloak. All that was left was bones, bleached white with age. The gorget he wore was rusted and covered in old blood. A knife laid at his feet, next to a sword which had been stabbed in the dirt, still dark and sharp and free of rust. The pommel was a white wolf with garnet eyes.

“Jon!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

“What, grandma?”

“Not you, idiot. This is grandma’s brother. Jon Snow. That means that’s Longclaw! Valyrian steel!”

Their voices faded, their arguments irrelevant to her. Before her was the body of her brother, Jon. He had abandoned the Wall decades ago, a few years after he arrived. Sansa feared he had gone to find Drogon and stake his claim to Bran’s throne, but their kingly brother had written back that Jon wasn’t a concern. They had never heard from him again.

Looking at the body, Arya could tell he had killed himself. He had taken the knife and slit his own throat, from what she could see. And there, beside his other hand was a silver three dragon head, rusted from age, but still discernible. That had been Daenerys’. Part of him died with her, she knew. And now all of him did, too.

Tears fell hot and heavy from her eyes. Her sobs had silenced the boys. It took some time but she composed herself and turned to them. “Ride back to Winterfell, both of you. Tell your father to bring men. And to have the stonecutter prepare a statue. My brother is coming home.”


End file.
